


memories (of our passing youth)

by miyawakii



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Crying, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, sentimentality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 07:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19001482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miyawakii/pseuds/miyawakii
Summary: But that’s the thing, also. Humans remember. He remembers, at least.“Ain’t that natural, though? We remember, despite all that stuff. We aim not to, but we do anyway.” Aran said, back hunched down, dark, thick eyebrows scrunched up in concentration. “It ain’t about what we literally are doing, I think, but about what we oughta do.”“But was it really what we ought to do?” Kita replied, calm and placid despite the intention of his words. A rebellion as poised and silent as the past seventeen years of his life. Like a high note in a melody: defiant, more boisterous than the others, yet still fit perfectly in key.-----Kita Shinsuke, the team's motto, the kids themselves and sentimentality.





	memories (of our passing youth)

**Author's Note:**

> hi its me finally uploading something after a wHOLE YEAR

_「思い出なんかいらん」_

_We don’t need something like memories._

 

     Kita mentioned it more than once, he remembers, about the team’s motto. He doesn’t particularly hate it, but he couldn’t say that he agrees to it, either. More like there was - and perhaps still is - a mutual distaste between them. Kita tried to nurture his team in a different direction: a quiet rebellion against the heartless slogan, while that philosophy retaliates by carrying the team to victory. Nonetheless, as the captain, Kita knew there were more pressing matters to the team than a thirty-year-old, _traditional_ phrase. Like finally surpassing Itachiyama and bring the cup back to the school; one last chance, for his dull high school volleyball career. _“Let ‘em pissy city boys know what Kansai are made of!”_ The twins’ voices still resonate within his hea

     So fond, that memory. Something he is supposed to leave behind.

Kita knows what the phrase is supposed to be about - understands it, as well as, if not even better than, the twins. Left the regret, the bitterness of yesterday behind. Left behind also the glory. Start afresh, chasing the dawn of tomorrow instead of the shadow of time passed by. Escapes complacency. _“If we cling onto yesterday’s glory, what can we possibly hope to achieve come tomorrow?”_ Kita remembers that, of course. The third set, Inarizaki versus Karasuno, the first match of Spring High, and the last match of his high school career.

But that’s the thing, also. Humans remember. He remembers, at least.

 

“Ain’t that natural, though? We remember, despite all that stuff. We aim not to, but we do anyway.” Aran said, back hunched down, dark, thick eyebrows scrunched up in concentration. “It ain’t about what we literally are doing, I think, but about what we oughta do.”

“But was it really what we ought to do?” Kita replied, calm and placid despite the intention of his words. A rebellion as poised and silent as the past seventeen years of his life. Like a high note in a melody: defiant, more boisterous than the others, yet still fit perfectly in key. _“You were not much of a notable kid, ain'tcha?”_ He remembers that, of course. The first thing anyone would have commented about him.

“Well, if ya decided to put it that way.” His companion awkwardly scratched his head, fingernails against short, curly hair. He isn’t one much for arguments, either. “I still stay we oughta do that, ya know. Not getting too comfortable with victories. Don’t be arrogant, and all that.” _And yet we still lose_ , the ghost of regret slipped out amidst the white noise of the wind.

 

It is already April. A week or two until graduation. Weeks until all of this - leisurely walking back home, their path basked in golden light as autumn leaves throughout the year; body sores after rigorous practices, the soft textures and dampness of the drag lingers on their hands, shrouded a volleyball-shaped ghost - become memories. Things he supposed to leave behind.

That’s the point, Kita bitterly thought. Perhaps the reason why he ought to leave all of it behind is that they rendered him bitter, _like this_ , mutinous despite his cold, hard logic and penchant for maturity, bitter despite his composed statue, and sentimental despite… Despite the philosophy that brings them to national. _We don’t need memories_. The weight of memories wouldn’t have granted them a place in nationals, silver or gold or otherwise. Maybe it’s the same thing: don’t let memories render you arrogant - don’t let memories render you nostalgic; lest you won’t be able to move on.

 

“If you want to remember, you still could, you know. Not like you were much of a person who let people decide for him what he oughta do, anyway.” Aran awkwardly muttered, and Kita realized that he must have been silent for too long.

“I think many would believe otherwise.”

“Well, you still ain’t a guy who let that get into ya, right?” When Kita looks up, Aran’s lips curved up kindly. A hint of mischievousness flashed through his co-captain eyes, nonetheless. It’s refreshing - reminding him that they are, still, teenager: unruly, clumsy, yet determined. Passionate. Not all would have noticed such thing from Kita, of course, not from the first sight, but Ojiro Aran is not “all”. Not all had voluntary stuck with him for three years, despite the intimidating gleam of his eyes. _“Maybe you should soften up, sometimes. Be more chill, dude.”_ He remembers. The third year of middle school. The second year of high school. He heard something similar more than twice.

That’s right, Kita isn’t that type of person who let people get into their head. He is more or less turn the blind eye to any criticism that he merely regards as useless. He cares even less about praise. There is satisfaction in life that doesn’t derive from praise, from the ego that is happily fed by sugar-drenched words. Those are true satisfaction in life, Kita thinks, for they derived from within - from himself. From him knowing the right things to do, from him knowing that he couldn’t mess up - not in the court, not out of it - and from knowing that, well, he did whatever he could and the result is the result, concrete and straightforward. Like a mathematical equation - if the numbers were off, check the variables, the signs, the parentheses. Fix it, and move on - causation blames no one.

Right, causation doesn’t need memories.

 

“There must be things that we have to remember.” Finally, Kita said, breaking the silence and releasing himself from his thoughts. “Things worth remembering.” His words sound surprisingly defiant to his ears. Foreign.

“Such as?”

“How to spike. How to receive. Toward whom should you aim your jump float serves. Things like that.” Technical things.

“Well, _technical things_.” They are good at knowing the words the other abandoned between the lines, Kita entertained the thoughts. “Muscles memories. Episodic memories. Not really the same, aren’t they?”

They passed by the conbini, and Aran dragged him in - figuratively, of course - and they stand in front of the refrigerators full of ice cream. And that’s how Kita knows that the conversation would tread on. April winds carry more heat, nowadays.

“Well,” Aran started, once more, while hesitating between the strawberry or matcha cone, “I don’t take you as the type to be embarrassed by sentimentality, but in the case that you are, here is some reassurance: don’t worry, the second years are not here.”

That forced a surprised laugh out of Kita. He quickly snatched the lemon popsicle decisively and thrust the strawberry cone into Aran’s hand, then gently closed the refrigerator’s sliding glass door. He nudged Aran toward the cashier counter before the other boy could argue. “Well, in that case, make sure you won’t cry. The kids sure had a field day on the bus back from Spring High.”

Yamada-san, the owner of the store, leisurely scanned their items and grunted a greeting under his cigarettes. After three years, he knew them well. Would he remember them? Kita ponders. Would he remember the two kids, for three years strolls down this path and occasionally buying ice cream from his shop, sometimes dragging along a rowdy bunch of younger teenagers? Or would they, too, faded into faceless shadows after a year or two?

Aran seemed exasperated by the comments but found for himself no retorts. “I won’t know for sure until you open that stone-cold head of yours up.”

 

They left the premise but ultimately decided to lounge on the bench nearby. Exams were already over - become nothing but smudged recalls and scrunched scores - no reason to rush home so soon. Kita sighed, carefully tearing up the plastic wrapper, then folding and wrapping it around the wooden stick. “So…”

Aran hummed, urged Kita to continue, while eyes still concentrating on shredding the wrapper.

“Memories, hmm…” It’s strange, Kita thought, he never imagined there would be a day that he would stumble over his words. Emotions, that must be the culprit. Facts are easier to define and throw out. “There are things people won’t want to forget, really. Like how much you… you love someone. How much you love a group of people.”

April winds are vicious, Kita thought. They picked up the forgotten dust and sprinkled them into people’s eyes. Kita bit his inner cheeks, pinching his soul out, word by word, “Like how much you love volleyball.” _It’s not like I would continue playing after high school_ , Kita remembers himself uttered such, in an afternoon not much differ from this.

“Like how much you’re proud of such a team… Like how much they mean to you.” Kita glanced down at this melting ice cream, hiding from the dusty winds. The lemon was more tart than he remembered.

“And how much you mean to them, also?” Aran continued. Kita didn’t know whether he was staring.

Kita was silent. The pause stretched on, more stiff and oppressive than the incoming heat, but he knows that Aran would wait, even to the morning, until he speaks up. He just nodded, weakly. “Aren’t you afraid of being forgotten, too?”

The winds blow, not quite strong enough to break the silence. The birds sing, but they paid no mind to the song. Kita and Aran seemingly exist in a sweltering bubble of silence; the thoughts in their minds, the awkwardness, and teenage confusion woven with an unwillingness to deal with emotions steamed the air. The silence was a stranger to neither; not if they spent too many afternoons together, wordless, cleaning up the gym and polish worn down volleyballs when no one else would; but this silence was tense. Suffocating.

“Yeah,” Aran thrust the words out of his lungs with all his might. “I am. I sure am.” He placed his hand on Kita’s shoulder, making sure that their gazes touched. Making sure that Kita isn’t hiding, again, under that steel eye of his. “But not right now. You know why? Because I’m absolutely sure the kids would never, ever forget about us.

“Like… how do I say this? You know how we are frettin’ about leavin’ them behind and about how no one could put a stop to the twins’ antics anymore? They are freakin’ out over that same things too. Even those two idiots know that they need someone to draw the lines for them. Maybe… no, they definitely are afraid of the same thin’ right now. Like us goin’ to college, becomin’ busy settlin’ in, and forget about them.” Aran paused, his hands remained in motion, as fretting and relentless as his caring instincts, “Looks, you are not alone and all that in the world, right. People come and people go, sure, the team as it is right now won’t be able to see each other every day like we do today, sure,...

“... but they remember. All the encounters in the world, we remember. Some, we remember it as good as if it was yesterday. People hold memories that are dear to them, and all those three years, there must be more than enough to cherish.” Kita wanted to look away, but Aran won’t let him. The April wind burned against his irises; out of the corner of his eye, Aran’s eyes were glimmering, too. “I know you got a penchant for being robotics or heartless or scary or… or whatever. But the kids love you. I… I am sure that they would never trade you for another captain. And… and so… they would definitely remember…”

“You told me that you won’t cry…” Kita said dryly, unsure of what else to say. He wiped his tears away, didn’t even bother to do it discreetly.

“I didn’t say that! I said that I won’t know until you open up!” Aran was definitely crying.

 

Kita let out a small giggle. Aran's cheeks blushed, perhaps from embarrassment, though the image of him crying in front of the team whenever anyone says anything remotely sentimental is nothing new. Kita stood up first, and Aran followed; sweet strawberry and acidic lemon clothed their tongues. Kita stuck his tongue out and lick the popsicle; gingerly, experimental, as if he hadn’t chosen that flavor for years.

Then he bit down.

“Oh my god… you… you absolute monster!” Aran shrieked indignantly. Kita’s face didn’t shift for a centimeter, but Aran is more than familiar with that cheeky glister on his eyes, “Atsumu who? Even that beast cannot… wouldn’t dare… to bit on his ice cream. Don’t you monsters get brain-freeze?”

“Can’t believe one day you would become the _straight man_ to my _funny man_ , hm.”*

“Not you, too!”

Laughter blossomed from Kita’s chest and got carried away by the wind, vibrated, and faltered to the surrounding. The sun lazily succumbed to its drowse as a silky orange bled across the sky, and Kita thought of mellow happiness overwhelmed effervescent blue, like a waning interlude precedes the ending: a sky as dark as their uniform and a world soon losing to slumber. He certainly hadn’t cried, or smile, this much in a single day since that certain Spring High match; that was a fact, concrete and unfeeling, unlike whatever confusion he just experienced. Still, emotions are certainly… refreshing, to a degree. They are there for a reason.

But emotions and crying and eating lemon ice cream tired him out. Having something sweeter would be nice.

 

Abruptly, Aran snatched the half-eaten, one-fourth melted popsicle out of his hand; then wordlessly handed him the strawberry cone. Half-eaten, one-eighth melted, the other one-eighth puddled inside the cornet.

“You always picked lemon.” _You look like you want something sweet_.

“And you already chose matcha last week.” 

They grinned, like seventeen-year-old idiots that they were and not two high school third years that are about to graduate, and soon will be forced all of this childish gestures behind. It’s nice - to give up a second of today to cherish a worn down path, mundane raptures, and mellifluent memories - and spare no thought for the future. Walking down the memories line, they said. Losing oneself in nostalgia, they teased. Yet, was living worth it if there aren’t any memories so beautiful that one must treasure for as long as times wouldn’t betray oneself?

The kids are right: he is turning old; Kita recalled, a small smile let loose for the wind to steal. Aran was walking ahead, his long and petulant strides cast a lanky shadow onto the street; as if he was still slightly embarrassed about crying in front of Kita, despite the three years and many speeches they went through together, despite Aran’s failed effort not to tear up as many times. Ah, the wonder of teenage pride.

 

“But there is still a point, ya know.” Aran uttered, still staring ahead, “Better not lose your head in all those regrets and nostalgia, lest you forget to enjoy the present.”

“Yeah,” Kita was slightly taken back. Only slightly. “Yeah. That’s right.”

Silence embraced their path once more, this time soothing - likes cool winds blow over scrape wounds. They have spent so many afternoons, so many days like this together, and Kita definitely has the right to be nostalgic about this - the steady, soft rhythm of his life, as familiar and tranquil as a lullaby. It’s going to end soon, however - like a quickened phase of an orchestral piece - but Kita couldn’t spend his time being afraid forever. Looking ahead and focus on the present, on the thing right in front of our eyes. Things like that.

They reached the bus stops before Kita realized and soon enough, the bus arrived. Kita doesn’t need to board the bus, but he had incorporated the wait to his routine, marked off after Aran leaves. Quietly, just as all the things that they have done together in private, Aran stepped on the bus. Kita wanted to say something.

“Save it, or I’m gonna tear up and you gonna tease me again.” Aran pouted as he took his leave, “Keep that for the captain speech or somethin’.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Almost forgot about that.” Kita muttered, his eyes slightly widened. “When is that gonna be, a week from now?”

“Five more days, to be exact. A day before graduation.” Aran smiled, knowingly, and the bus departed.

 

Kita lingered for a second; he steadily took on the rest of the journey home. The April winds rushed through as the day is doomed to end - the orange storm was slowly eaten up by dark blue and outreaching black. There is still a farewell that he needs to take care of.

**Author's Note:**

> yay


End file.
